Silent Gravity
by ShatteredAngelWings
Summary: Snape walks into a nightclub for a simple night of dancing, getting pissed and stumbling home. Never in a million years did he think he would have imagined that he'd bump into a curly-haired waitress named Kit—aka one two-years-missing Hermione Granger. SSHG
1. Chapter 1

Silent Gravity

THE MUSIC WAS loud, pulsing and beating through the dancers as they shook and ground on the dance floor.

Hermione blinked away sweat as she swung around a skinny man hugging a chubby girl and wiggled through a group of giggling girls. The shot glasses on her tray shuddered as some boy elbows her in the side. She eased away with the grace of a bow-legged moose and made her way towards the back table.

She paused mid-step when she saw the long black hair of a man at the table she was waiting and his long fingers that drummed gracefully against the table; her eyes were drawn to his forearm, where she thought she saw a flash of black.

She shook her head, reminded herself she didn't care and continued forward until she reached the table. "Your shots, sir," she said over the music. The man looked up at her and she started, wide-eyes as the tray slid out of her hands.

Severus Snape stared back at her and, what shocked her, was that he looked entirely different. His face was more filled but his cheekbones were still protruding, more so as from being so high on his face than stress; his skin glowed with healthy; his eyes no longer looked dead or haunted and his hair was silky and soft in the low lighting.

He was attractive, really; his hair, long and thick and generously black, fell in curtains of ebony satin; his skin, although pale, had the hue of a man who got attention from witches regularly; and his eyes, framed by long, impossibly thick eyelashes the color of a starless, moonless sky, gleamed with surprise and humor in the light.  
The relaxed Post-Voldemort life had done Snape well. He was lean still but had filled out; his shoulders were broad and his slim chest tapered into a slender waist that branched into long, strong legs. His arms were long, graced with lean muscles and ended with long, slim hands with pianist fingers.

"Miss Granger?"

"Professor Snape?"

He glanced down at the scotch soaking her thighs, rolled his eyes and she immediately became flushed; she'd just spilt scotch all over herself! And in front of Snape, the Most Hated Man in the Wizarding World, no less! She waved her hand, vanishing the liquid, and conjuring more. "I'm terribly sorry about that, sir," she said, attempting to keep her voice polite, calm and, most importantly, _professional_. "Miss Granger," purred the Dark wizard, lacing his fingers together to hold up his chin as he smirked up at her, "there is nothing to be sorry about except the little Gryffindor princess losing her cool."

Once upon a time, she would've bristled and sputtered; now, after five years of working here, she merely blinked and recited her lines. "I'm sorry sir." Hermione jumped as a drunken girl bumped into her. The drunk flashed her a saucy smile before sashaying away, howling to the ceiling. Snape's lips quirked and he chuckled.

"Reminds me of Lupin."

She managed a fraying attempt at a laugh. It sounded cruel and brittle as shattered glass. He stared at her, his thumb rubbing her lower lip thoughtfully. "Whisper my name when you want me." She hurried away before her facade could crumble.

* * *

She felt the prickling of tears and hid in the bathroom until she heard, or rather felt, his silky voice wrap around her and speak her name.

"Where's Weasley and Potter?" he asked when she set down his next five shots; he hardly looked buzzed. "I don't know, sir. I haven't spoken with them in five years." She kept her tone clipped, an edge like a hidden razor peeking out but he barely even noticed it. "Why? Trouble in paradise?"

She bit her tongue and turned on heel, walking away.

"My feet are killing me," she muttered more to herself than anything. She added a Cushioning charm, tested her feet by walking—sashaying, Sarah called it jokingly—a few paces and, satisfied, sat back down. Hermione was sweaty, aching, and just wanted to go home and fall asleep in the bathe while reading her racy novels.

"_Miss Granger,_" his voice whispered and she ground her teeth, snatched up her tray and stalked back to him. "Yes?" She brushed back a damp curl, reminding herself not to hex his long hair off. "Sit with me."

"Sir," she began, easing back but she bumped into a tall man. "Something wrong, Kit?" asked the man. He was tall, burly and had a thick red beard that covered the expanse of his jaw. His face was round, with sharp grey eyes and a squashed nose. Aside from his beard, he had no hair. "No, Andy," she sighed.

She could feel a headache beginning, the pain slicing out from her temples. She stumbled, taken surprise by the sudden agony and her knees buckled. "Kit, maybe you should take a break," said Andy, his hands steadying her.

"I'm fine," she argued, immediately hating the fact that he was trying to baby her. She was twenty-three, a full-grown woman, _witch_ and she sure as hell could take care of herself. She shook him off and pulled her hair off her neck, damp with sweat.

She cast a Cooling charm as the redhead fidgeted. "Who is this? Another redhead?" sneered Snape. Hermione felt the familiar rush of anger, anger at her friends for letting her leave, anger at her parents for leaving, anger at Snape for sneering at her misfortune—her hair crackled with static, sparks of magic flying off and searing the butts of people too close. Andy rubbed her arm and she relaxed at his cool, familiar touch.

"It seems you have an affinity for redheads, don't you agree?" Snape taunted.

"What about you, Snape?" Hermione forced her whirring mind to calm; she pictured a lake, calm and blissful and Snapeless. "If I remember correctly, you pined after a red-haired woman with Harry's eyes who didn't even give you a second glance. You knew she didn't want nor love you yet you kept going after her."

There was silence that greeted her banter; she knew she overstepped her boundaries but found she could care less. She was doing fine, perfectly well without Ron or Harry or her parents and then Snape popped up and her shell was shattering.

"Who are you?" Andy demanded, popping his red-haired knuckles menacingly. She shook her head. "And what about you, Miss Granger? Still the insufferable, buck-toothed, bushy-haired know-it-all you were in school," Snape hissed, rising to his full height.

She really didn't have time for this and her headache was growing worse by the second and she was feeling dizzy. She knew she should've eaten something, anything—

"Why did Weasley leave? Why did Potter leave? Perhaps you drove them off with your affinity for spewing facts like a damn book? Maybe it's because you're a frigid bitch." She let his remarks slide off her like water; being called a know-it-all was nothing new and neither was being called a frigid bitch. "I'm not afraid of you, Severus."

"You should be, Hermione." He was closer and her head was spinning. She felt weak and strangely light and loved hearing her name on his tongue.

"Why?"

"I could kill you in the most painful ways possible," he whispered. "I could hex off your family jewels," she countered. She stumbled when he stepped closer. God, she couldn't breathe and her vision was going hazy. Her lungs refused to expand and she could feel tears of fear prickling her eyes.

Was this an asthma attack? He was nose-to-nose with her when the dizziness stopped and she fell hard, her breathing short and too shallow. She lay there, slumped; she had fainted. "Granger!" barked out Snape.

She noticed he had the prettiest eyes she'd ever seen, alive with something she never thought she'd see directed at an insufferable, bushy-haired, buck-toothed know-it-all: concern.


	2. Chapter 2

**Silent Gravity**

**SEVERUS SNAPE GLOWERED** at her figure on the floor, ignoring the belligerent rambling of the idiot redhead. He _really _didn't have time for the dunderhead who painfully reminded him of another redheaded idiot with the appetite of a great shark. "She's breathing," he informed the burly wizard, eyeballing his flushed face and shaky hands. "Thank god," he moaned.

"Has she eaten?"

"No, I don't think so."

Snape rubbed his face, sighing. "She collapsed from exhaustion, heat stroke and lack of nourishment. She will _certainly _be death unto herself." Andy wiped at his eyes. "I was—"

"Shut up, you incompetent imbecile," Snape snarled, feeling a flash of anger rush through him. "And get me a glass of water." Andy slinked off, his pasture reminding Snape of a dog with his tail between his legs. The Potions master knelt down beside Hermione and held up her head, stroking her damp curls away.

"You should know better to take care of yourself," he hissed as he pulled the cork off a phial of Conscious Draught and pried her plump lips apart. For a moment, he paused, wondering if she used lip-gloss or lipstick but shook himself and tilted the phial's contents down her throat.

At first, nothing happened. Someone snapped a picture but he found he could care less. Whispering echoed around the room as her eyelids fluttered. She took a slow breath, opened her eyes as though waking up after a long sleep, and yawned. "You _daft _woman." Snape heard his voice say but it didn't hold any of the malice or force it used to as his heart stopped thumping in his chest fortunately.

"Professor!" she rasped out, her eyes growing wide.

"I am no longer your professor, Miss Granger, nor are you my student," he said softly, eyes lingering on her undeniable curves. She was plump, not fat or overweight; a good, solid weight—curvy, just the perfect handle for a man to hold, the kind of women Snape, although he'd never admit, found himself attracted to.

Her hair was silkier than he remembered, maintained and managed; not frizzy and wild, as it had been the entire six years she was at Hogwarts. He had watched her that night at the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum, her hair elegantly pinned into loose curls and bun, dressed in a periwinkle dress that hugged her growing curves and figure; her smile was wide enough to split her face open.

She had been beautiful even before that, although he was her professor and there for forced himself not to notice, to make snide comments about her buck teeth; he had always thought her smile was fine, to be honest, a real smile, not blindingly white and ruler-straight, an honest-to-Merlin real, not prosthetic smile.

"Prof—Snape?" asked the girl—_no,_ he thought with a wiry smirk, _woman_—and he drew himself to his feet. Leaning down, he held out his hand, palms up and noticed she stared at him as though he'd grown two heads. "Go on, Miss Granger, I do not bite." He flashed a wicked smirk. "Unless you wish me to."

She flushed down to her pretty toes and grasped his hands; he pulled her up easily. He knew she was no small woman but, having spent years under the Dark Lord and Dumbledore as a spy for the Order, he was in excellent physical shape. He could run two hundred meters without breaking a sweat and lift up to seven hundred pounds, which he highly doubted Hermione weighed.

"Thank you," she said quietly, fiddling with a loose curl. "You're welcome, Miss Granger." She looked him in the eyes. "Call me Hermione, Snape."

"Hermione it is."

He waited until the redheaded imbecile lumbered in from the kitchen, a glass of water in his hand, and then left without a word. "Take care, Hermione," he whispered into the frigid air before he Disapparated with the thought of his chambers.

* * *

Snape brushed the lingering snow from his robes as he walked the length of the long, damp corridor. The dungeons were considerably colder than he remembered; maybe he should cast some warming charms. He quickened his pace, unwarded the door and stepped through quickly.

He peeled off the damp layers and tossed them aside. His Familiar yowled as the clothes landed on him. "A little water never killed anyone, Cornelius," the man sighed as the black cat hissed and swiped at his shins. He waved his hand and the water dried out through clouds of steam; the cat's fur relaxed but he still glowered at Snape with suspicious yellow eyes as he crouched, ready to pounce.

He unbuttoned his shirtsleeves, running his hands over his sore neck as he poured a glass of warmed Firewhiskey. He slammed it down, enjoying the fizzing burn that raged in his belly, coursing through his veins and branching into his fingertips.

He pushed the shirt away from his shoulder, letting it lay on the floor in a cold, wet heap; he'd deal with it later when he wasn't so dead with exhaustion. His hands lazily unbuttoned his trousers before downing another shot. It burned down his throat and splashed into his empty stomach, fiery and hot —fiery like that Gryffindor know-it-all.

He took yet another shot and swished it around din his mouth. Fire licked his gums and burned at his teeth; he might as well have swallowed Ghost Peppers. The burning followed down his throat. _She's absolutely stunning, _thought Snape as he sloppily poured another glass. _Where did Potter and Weasley go? Why did they leave her—why did _Weasley _leave her? _Another shot, the glass slammed down onto the unfortunate nightstand.

_Why would _anyone _in their right _minds _leave her? _He sank into the comforters, lazily kicking off his shoes. His head was swimming terribly but he really didn't care. Hermione Granger's now solitary life was a mystery and he, Severus Tobias (he honestly despised that middle name) Snape would solver her.

His head had barely touched the pillow before he fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Silent Gravity**

**Hermione Jean Granger **drummed her long nails against the bar tabletop, glancing around. It was a painfully slow night, which was odd since it was around ten at night and most of the time, by this late, they were packed and she was sticky with sweat and her feet were killing her.

"Hey," said Sarah as she jogged up. Sarah was a curvy, long-legged blonde with a dimpled smile, short eyelashes and brown eyes. "Slow night?" Hermione shrugged. "Probably."

Sarah hopped up on the bar stool beside her and kicked off her high heels. "What happened last night? Tall, dark and pedophile was all up on you." Hermione's cheeks burned. "I…he was Severus Snape."

"_The _Severus Snape?"

Hermione nodded. "Yeah." She shrugged nonchalantly and brushed a curl out of her eyes. "You know, Kit," Sarah mused, "maybe he _loves _you."

_After all this time?_

_Always._

Hermione shook her head. "I don't even _know _why you guys insist on calling me Kit if you're just gonna call me by my real name."

"Because, Miss Granger, there are those who would absolutely _love _to get their filthy hands around your pretty neck and watch the life slip out of your eyes if they knew who you were."

Sarah let out a squeal that would put a fangirl to shame and Hermione cupped her ear in pain. "Can you fangirl any louder?" she hissed, scowling at her coworker and best friend. Sighing, Hermione turned to Snape and monotoned, "Welcome to Black Fabric. If you'll follow me."

As Hermione passed Sarah, the blonde reached out and gave Hermione's bum a sharp slap. Hermione went beet red. "I have no regrets!" laughed the blonde bombshell as she sprinted away, walking so very easily with bare feet where as Hermione had to keep from falling flat on her face in her wedges. Hermione shoved back her hair and led Snape to a dark, corner table.

"Would you like a drink?"

"I'd like a dance…as an apology for bringing up bad memories for the both of us." She stuck her pen behind her ear and cocked a hip. "What happened to my asshole professor?"

His lips quirked up in a ghost of a smile as he steepled his fingers and rested his chin on his fingertips. "My master was killed," he responded without missing a beat.

"Which one?" she asked, twirling her pen between her fingers as she pursed her mouth in a pucker.

The quirk fell from his lips.

"Voldemort."

The name sent a hush over the staff; he hardly seemed to notice. His black, black eyes gazed at her, burned into her and she felt as though she were naked, as though Snape were undressing her with his gaze. "Just because Voldemortis gone doesn't mean you suddenly have to be charming," she replied as she tucked her notepad into her apron.

His smirk was back, full-force now.

"You're correct, Miss Granger. I have ulterior motives." His smirk was undeniably attractive, dark and mysterious; it really transformed his pale face into something more suited for a dangerous, dark angel. She decided not to pursue the issue of him still calling her formally.

"And what would that be?"

His smirk widened as he leaned back and grossed his arms. The black sweater he wore hugged his lean musculature and she noticed how fitting he looked in black Muggle clothes, so much better than those voluminous teaching robes.

"Unravel the mystery."

"Mystery of what?"

Was he _flirting _with her?

"You." He was completely and utterly serious, Hermione realized. "You're mad," she told him. "There is _no _mystery. Now, if you'll excuse me, _Professor_, I have things to do." She turned on her heel and hadn't even taken three steps when his voice said, "Like what, Miss Granger? Chatter with your little girlfriend?"

She wheeled.

"How _dare _you come here and _ruin _my peace, my sanctuary? I left everything; I left the Wizarding world behind because there is _nothing _left for me. Everyone has their own lives and I needed out—away from the publicity, away from the rumors of Ron and I, away from—"

She broke off, looking away. Her jaw clenched and she remembered the horrible sensation of loosing him, her world, her only—

"Away from anything and everything magical?" His voice was calm. "How can you stand there and mock me?" she hissed, bristling. His eyes met hers and she found that there was no mockery, no amusement, no sick pleasure in her sorrow. "We lost many fine people that day."

She squeezed her eyes shut.

"And so the phoenix cries," he told her.

Her eyes popped open and she leaned in, invading his personal space, static crackling like wax paper in her ears as his black tar eyes held hers. "Where did you here that?" she snarled. She remembered sitting on his lap when they came home from school, telling him about everything at Hogwarts, even mean, grumpy Professor Severus Snape and he had laughed when she told him of Fawkes.

"And so the phoenix cries," he had said when she told him about the final battle and the funerals that were held and how the phoenix had soared above, crying out in its beautiful voice.

The tears that prickled her eyes stunned him. "Miss Granger." His hand lay heavy and hot on hers, his long fingers stained with ink and calloused with scars. She blinked back the tears that threatened to spill out, to drown them.

"An old, dear friend once told me that when he learned of the fate of the fallen in the final battle at Hogwarts." She didn't believe him for one second and pulled away, turning away. "You filthy, horrid liar," she spat. "My brother…my dear, dear brother…told me that! It was our—our thing. It was our secret. How the hell did you learn it?" she hissed.

Around her, the air crackled and sizzled with magic, nearly explosive with her anger.

"Who do you think told him the phoenix cries for those lost in battles?" he said quietly. They stared at each other, witch and wizard, Dark and light, man and woman, professor and student; neither said a word and then:

"You were his mentor." He'd told her he wanted to learn about her world, so he'd understand what she jabbered about. Anger sparkled inside her, igniting a wave of emotion. Several wine glasses exploded in a shower of glass.

"Don't come back," she snarled as she pressed forward and yanked him out of his seat. She was trembling viciously but not with fear, not with sorrow—with anger.

Without a single thought, she kicked open the door, watched glass shatter with the force, and tossed Severus Snape onto his ass outside.


End file.
